Viva La Resistance?
by ally-kat312
Summary: Though you die, La Resistance lives on!.. right?


(A/N: I've edited this to flow much more nicely. Some ideas based off the original Red Dawn movie. Enjoy.)

Gregory crawled under the bush, dragging his partner with him. They had been ambushed and, as usual, Christophe had taken the brunt of the blast. This time, however… This time his partner's wounds didn't seem so fixable. Gregory had to try though. He lay his friend down as he hastily unslung his pack, clumsily searching through it as his thoughts and heartbeat raced. The first-aid kit, where was the bloody first-aid kit?! The gloved part of Christophe's hand reached over and gently clasped Gregory's. He hadn't noticed until then how much his fingers were trembling.

"Stop. I, ah, 'ow do you say eet, appreciate your concern, but…" Le Mole let out a dark chuckle, along with some blood. "Eet ees better to not waste supplies on a 'opeless cause, _non_?"

"… _non_," Gregory replied, his voice heavy with sadness. "But still I have to try Christophe! I don't care if it doesn't seem like it'll won't work, but we'll never known if we don't try so-"

"Gregory." The Frenchman silenced his partner with his name. "Please. Your passion ees touching, but eet ees also useless. Nozing can 'elp now." The reality of the situation finally began to sink into Gregory. He folded in on himself, dropping the medical tape in his hands. Christophe's labored breathing filled the silence until he spoke again.

"Can you shoot me?" Gregory vehemently shook his head. He couldn't even bring himself to consider Christophe's request. "Zought so," the brunette sighed. "Just… lie next to me for a little while." Gregory was reluctant to fully accept the man's death, but knew his friend was right. He could at the very least fulfill his last requests. Gregory lay beside Christophe, his face tucked in the crook of his neck. He could feel his slow heartbeat. The two were oblivious to the gun shots and cries of men searching for them. Gregory felt heated tears steadily stream down his cheeks as he shook and gripped Christophe's dark-stained shirt tightly. He heard his partner murmur comforting words in his native language as he stroked Gregory's blonde hair.

"Eet won't be so bad, dying again," Christophe whispered after a while. "At least eet won't be from guard dogs this time. I fucking 'ate guard dogs."

"I know," Gregory murmured silently. He knew everything about Christophe. His strange warning signals, his hatred for God, his ability to tunnel, weird habits he had developed over the year for some reason or another… his passion.

"Of course you do," Christophe replied. He ran his hands through Gregory's hair again. The pressure of his fingers was softer. His amazing strength was beginning to fail, something Christophe prided himself in as a mercenary. If that was disappearing, what could be next? A fresh wave of tears shook Gregory's body as the truth hit harder than ever.

"Chr-Christophe… you can't possibly b-be dying, we… we still have a mission to fi-finish…" Gregory whispered, barely able to muster a smile at his own joke. Christophe found the strength to weakly laugh, a pity chuckle.

"Oui, eet ees ridiculous," he agreed. "But, zough I die… La Résistance… eet lives on, _oui_?"

"_Oui,_" Gregory answered weakly. "I think."

"Eet ees not somezing you should zink too 'ard about eet, you stupeed Brit. You should just know," Christophe said. He focused a large amount of his remaining strength on propping himself up slightly. "Ze grenade… you 'aven't used eet, _oui_?"

"Not yet, I didn't see any use for-" Gregory realized the subtext of Christophe's question. "No, Christophe, you can't mean-!"

"Give eet to me," Christophe commanded, not even bothering to let Gregory finish his sentence. He was too upset to argue. It was his partner's final wishes. Hands still shaking, Gregory took the grenade out of his pack and handed it to Christophe. He refused to let go on the small metal object at first, but with some coaxing he loosened his grip. Christophe lay back on the ground, then placed the bomb so that the pin would come out when his body was lifted or disturbed.

"I won't be used for whatever zey are planning," he muttered. "And I'll kill any zat try to move me away…" He reached over and found Gregory's hand. Gregory guided him to it, past the point of caring how dirty his white gloves got from the dirt on Christophe's fingerless leather ones. He remembered how Christophe used to always say he was weird for wearing white gloves on their missions. Gregory was beginning to think he had been on to something and told Christophe so. If he hadn't been about to die, the Frenchman might've boasted and held this acceptance over Gregory's head for week. They didn't have weeks left together anymore.

"Don't go, Christophe," he pleaded uselessly. Christophe laughed for the last time.

"_Je t'aime_, Gregory," he said, squeezing Gregory's hand so softly that the blonde wasn't sure if he just imagined the feeling.

"_Je t'aime, mon ami_," Gregory whispered back, giving his own soft squeeze. Le Mole made the slightest shake of his head.

"_Non, pas comme des amis__… __je t'aime__à la folie__ … mon amour._" Christophe gently lifted Gregory's gloved hand to his lips and kissed it, before closing his eyes and letting out a final breath. Gregory felt the grip on his hand go slack, a sure sign that death had claimed his only friend- no, more than just a friend, but sadly less than a lover. He leaned over and kissed the lips he hadn't known softly.

"_Oui, mon cher. __Je t'aime__à la folie_." Gregory lay next to Le Mole, taking in the air. It smelled like the gunpowder and cigarette smoke that was deeply implanted into the Frenchman's clothes. Physically, Gregory was fine. He had a small wound from where a bullet had barely grazed him, but if he patched it up, he could get up and walk off, complete their mission without another hitch. He could but… he was so tired. His face was damp with tears and a little bit of Christophe's blood. Gregory closed his eyes. He promised his friend that he would lie next to him. And he would. He would stay until the scout teams later found them and adjusted the bodies, and he went out in a glorious blast of a grenade, his last feeling being his hand still holding tightly to the limp hand of a partner he had and a partner he missed out on.

Though they died, La Résistance lived on.

(A/N: _"__Je t'aime__à la folie"_ translates to _"__I love you madly"_ and _"__Non, pas comme des amis__"_ translates to _"__No, not just as friends__"_.)


End file.
